


All that music, it's almost like a voice.

by Cactusepique



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Implied violence and abuse, abled writer writting a disabled character, gratuitous reference to 17th century music, twissy, viola de gamba
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 01:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11002686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cactusepique/pseuds/Cactusepique
Summary: Life in the vault isn't easy.Sometimes Missy plays music.Sometimes the Doctor listens.





	All that music, it's almost like a voice.

**Author's Note:**

> A very short piece because I have not written in ages, English isn't my first language and I'm a bit rusty. I'd be very grateful to anyone who would point any mistake out. 
> 
> The two musics referred to in this work: 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cmyxYFhyfFQ
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydudrOGACTY

Missy was playing the viola de gamba –the one he’d bought her from Pardoux’s small workshop in seventeenth century France. 

“That’s ‘la rêveuse’, by Marin Marais,” he said, “French for ‘the dreamer’.”

“You’ve just shazamed it with your sunglasses.” 

“Well, it took a while, and your playing isn’t perfect yet.” 

For a brief instant, he was afraid she would throw something at him, but she only started playing something else. 

“That one is ‘le badinage’, same composer” he said, “see? No time for Shazam!” 

He was imagining her. Her posture perfect, back slightly arched, powerful, pale, bare thighs locking the instrument in place, her breasts moving softly with the movements of the arm handling the bow. 

“That’s the French word for ‘banter’…,” he continued. 

She stopped playing and he stood up, extending his hand for her to take. Missy took it, and he dropped to his knees before her. She placed his hand on the viol table. His fingers played idly with the strings, making small, disconnected sounds. 

“Are you naked?” he asked suddenly, “I was imagining you naked,” he spluttered, “must be the music. Very cello-ish. It meddles with the neurochemicals.” 

Missy sighed, ran her fingers through his hair, guided his hand to her waist. 

“Silk”, he murmured, “your floral dressing gown. The red one.” 

He felt her shift slightly as she carefully put the viol aside. 

“You’re awfully quiet today,” he mused, winding his arms around her waist, pressing his face against her soft, warm stomach. 

“And you’re awfully cuddly,” she said, voice soft and weary. 

“Skin hunger,” he replied, pulling her closer until they were both on the floor and she was in his lap. “I used to dislike touch, now it feels like I could go crazy from the lack of it.” 

“That’s very relatable,” Missy said, resting her head on his chest, her arms encircling him for balance. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He wanted to say more. 

He didn’t know how to. 

“Bed?” he asked instead, “we could sleep or something.” 

Sometimes sex had made things better, sometimes it had made them worse. He didn’t always know how so or why. 

“You’re shaking,” he said, running his hands up and down her arms. 

“I’m not.” 

He failed to hold her back and she left, but she returned after a few seconds, and he let her settle herself between his legs, her back to him as she leaned against his chest. She had taken her viol back, but she hadn’t taken the bow. 

“I miss outside,” she said, playing the viol like a guitar in a quick, unnerving rhythm, “but it’s almost nice here. It’s better.”

She fell silent, played for a few minutes. He wanted to tell her to stop, instead he searched for her hand, surprised when she didn’t help him by grabbing his. 

“Better than what?” he asked when he could pry her fingers away from the strings. 

“Imprisonment before the execution,”, she whispered, “they…” 

She stopped and he realized she was on the verge of tears. He took the viol from her hands, put it aside and gathered her more closely in his arms, hoping she would let him try to help. 

“They what, Mistress?”, he asked but she shook her head no and he felt her damp eyelids against the side of his neck. 

“I wish I could see again,” he said instead of questioning her again. “It’s okay Mistress, you can cry. We can be sad together.” 

He stroked her hair, refused to think of the other times she had been like this, and dutifully noted that this time she was accepting comfort. 

It was a start. 

“You’re safe. You can cry. I won’t tell a soul.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedbacks make me really happy!!


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